


Sleeping in the Garden

by shortwavemystery



Series: Sleeping in the Garden [1]
Category: Ultravox - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27815338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortwavemystery/pseuds/shortwavemystery
Summary: 1980: Midge Ure can't help but wonder about the enigmatic character he's replaced as the frontman of Ultravox, and decides to pay him a visit.
Relationships: Midge Ure/John Foxx
Series: Sleeping in the Garden [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035288





	Sleeping in the Garden

No matter how much everyone else in the band expressed their fondness for him, or how impossible the odds of John Foxx ever crawling back to them seemed, Midge felt an ugly sort of jealousy over his latest little group. Wouldn’t that be just like his luck, to lose something that seemed so promising? Yes, it was pure irrationality, like a teenage boy feels knowing his special girl had somebody else before him. Utterly immature. Idiotic! And yet...when those nagging thoughts came for him, the danger and the fear seemed perfectly real.

The word on the street was that Foxx was setting up his very own studio--and wasn't that intriguing? Perhaps it was a sign he was going to quietly slip into producing for other musicians, and fade into the background as his own artist. Pft, not bloody likely. Hadn't he left the rest of the band in utter disarray purely to pursue his own selfish musical whims? Besides, producing was for people who were old, fat, or otherwise cursed in the looks department. Foxx certainly had the kind of striking face that looked good on the cover of a record album, and that was something nobody could deny him. 

But still...his own studio, and anybody could offer to rent the place? Midge remained amazed at how small the world seemed in London, how densely packed the entire music industry was, and, of course, how easy it was to gain access to things one felt one shouldn't be able to. Know the right person, call the right phone number, give a fake name and backstory, book a time, and show up...all you had to do was act confident--maybe even a tad haughty--about your business, and oftentimes people would take your self-importance at face value. The opportunity to size up Mr. Foxx in person was much too tempting to dismiss. Maybe, thought Midge, just maybe, meeting him in person, realizing he really exists and has his own set of flaws and shortcomings, would eliminate that immaculate spectre in the back of his mind.

When he answered the door, though, there was fairly little reassuring about the sight of him. One was struck immediately by his frame--he really was a bit over six foot, and while very slender, his broad shoulders gave him a substantive presence. Without a makeup crew on set to flatter him, he had one of those florid English complexions: reddish, in somewhat uneven patches. He also seemed to have one eye arched slightly higher than the other. But these tiny things weren't enough to render him anywhere near unattractive. Not with that narrow, chiseled face, and of course, those beachy blond waves. Even today, greeting his guest at the door in a tacky striped sweater and unimpressive khakis, he had a certain majesty that seemed poised to devastate, like a stalking tiger on the prowl. 

“Good morning--Mr. James, I take it?” he said, with an edge of softness in his voice that wasn’t exactly what one expected from those confrontational punk screeds he’d once recorded. Midge simply nodded, practically pushing past him to get in the door. The fewer words out of your mouth, the less likely anyone notices you’re a bad liar. 

“You don’t look...terribly prepared,” Foxx prodded him after a moment, glancing at Midge’s hands wedged deep in his pockets, and the standoffish angles of his elbows. 

“Just checking the place out, to see if it suits...the needs of my client,” he offered dismissively, out of the side of his mouth. “This information is all confidential of course, but I assure you, it’s a matter that demands much sensitivity and precision...”

Foxx seemed content to stand there and listen to him improvise, with a wan-looking smile plastered on his face. Surely, he wasn’t that simple-minded, was he? Maybe he was desperate, believing things just because he wanted to believe them...wouldn’t that be nice? After seemingly too long of a pause, he opened his mouth again. “Whatever it is you’d like, Mr. James. I’d be more than happy to give you a tour. But, before we begin, would you fancy some tea?”

A perfect out, and offered to him just like that? Midge wondered if perhaps his luck might be improving after all. This sounded like an ideal opportunity to pull his leg for a few minutes, and then make up an excuse to leave, muttering and glancing at his watch. No need to hang around debating technical specifications. “Yes, please--that sounds quite nice,” he replied, quickly biting his tongue over how obsequious and out of character that must’ve sounded. What goon doing footwork for a very important and very confidential client said things like “please?”

Once again, Foxx seemed utterly unperturbed by his apparent shortcomings as a thespian. He gestured to offer him a seat in the studio’s spotless anteroom, then disappeared to what must have been a simple kitchenette, hidden away somewhere Midge didn’t dare crane his neck to look into. Of course, “Mr. James” wouldn’t care to see it, so why should he risk displaying any interest in such things? He occupied himself with such thoughts until the piercing whistle of a kettle alerted him to the need of stiffening his shoulders again, and getting back into character. 

Foxx re-emerged and set a pair of teacups and saucers out for the two of them, with a graceful gait so measured and practiced it was nearly waltzlike. He had that certain quality...domestic, like a housewife, taking pride in the tiny details of quotidian activities. Midge examined the teacup--off-white, simple, but boldly modern. It fit in perfectly with the tidy, deeply aestheticized and carefully chosen furnishings in the place. And then he quickly blinked this contemplation away. “Mr. James” didn’t waste time analyzing interior decor, right?

“Can you do me a favour?” Foxx asked him, interrupting the twirling dance of the gears in his head. He was smiling now--not a polite smile, but a genuine, involuntary one. It was full of a sinister sort of satisfaction, like a house cat curled up on a chair he isn’t allowed on if his owner is home. Toying idly with the string of his tea bag, perhaps stifling a laugh, he laid it bare: “I know exactly who you are, alright? That means you can relax.”

Fear gripped Midge’s heart, and he felt the blood move under the skin of his face. He’d known this entire time and just let him go on like that? The nerve of him! 

Before he could stitch together an adequate response, hopefully somehow restoring a shred of his dignity, Foxx continued: “I hope you realize, I think you’re doing a fine job in my old position! You know, I actually went to see you perform at one of your gigs not too long ago. You were wonderful. I was very happy for the three of them. And you can count me happy for you, too.”

“Really?” Midge was simply incredulous. Now this was too good to be true. What more could he have asked for out of this crassly intentioned visit? And what sort of smart response could he level towards that?

“Really,” he replied, nodding his head for emphasis. “I’ve got no incentive to deceive you,” he added, working the metaphorical knife deeper into Midge’s wounded pride. Intentionally or otherwise.

“Of course you do,” he fired back. “You’re probably saying that because you want me out the door I came in. Trying to weasel your way out of trouble.”

He looked legitimately surprised at being questioned, as if he’d simply staked a claim that the sky was blue. “Trouble? What trouble? Even if we disagreed over this or that, it wouldn’t be anything that couldn’t be handled like reasonable adults.” He took a sip of that tea demurely, closing his eyes like some sort of princess. Completely black, apparently. It helped explain his figure...

“But not every moment in life is meant for being reasonable,” Midge quipped candidly. “Sometimes, we feel things that don’t make sense, but it’s a part of being human. There’s jealousy and rage and...hope.” He nearly cringed listening to himself. What was he going to do, discuss the meaning of life?

Foxx didn’t seem put off in the slightest. “Yes, of course. But we also have to have a certain self-control. Both for others, and for ourselves. It’s not good for us to hold on to too much tension, too much of those negative feelings.”

Midge had just about had enough of what was swiftly becoming aimless prattle. “Listen, on that note, I really should get out of your hair--but, thanks for your hospitality, John.”

Before he could even lean forward to get out of his seat, he was interrupted by a hearty and surprisingly deep laugh. “Please,” his host nearly shouted, “whatever you want to say about me, call me ‘Dennis!’”

“Your name is Dennis?” Midge nearly demanded, entirely blindsided for the moment, incapable of thinking of just about anything else. He didn’t look like someone whose name was “Dennis,” not whatsoever. 

“You didn’t know that already? Well, that’s news to me,” he replied mirthfully. “I only wish I was ‘John Foxx,’ I’m afraid...he’s my better half. Dresses a bit better than me, has a sharper wit. More handsome, too. Surely, the rest of those mutual acquaintances of ours, they call me that behind my back?”

“To be honest, nobody talks about you very much at all...I get the sense the rest of them would perhaps rather just forget about you, or ignore the fact you existed.” Midge leaned back in his chair again. He already knew he wouldn’t be back--that much, he’d decided. No good could ever come of it. But he figured a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt...might as well squeeze as much catharsis out of this misadventure as possible, right?

“Like someone who’s gotten dumped and jumps into someone else’s arms, then?” teased Dennis, still smiling, amusing himself with his own cleverness. He leaned forward and girlishly rested his cheek against a fist.

“Well, maybe,” replied Midge, unsettled yet again, continually refusing eye contact. Did he really have to use such a disgusting simile? “I don’t know. I’m not a mind reader. If you want to know how they all feel, you’d have to ask them yourself. Maybe...maybe that’s why I came here, after all. Because there’s so much I don’t know. And it hangs in the sides of my mind that I don’t know it, and I might never know. All that history. Secrets.”

Dennis shook his head in the negative. “I promise you, nothing terribly exciting happened. I left the band because we weren’t compatible in the long term, and there was no further good that could come of working together. I wasn’t being cruel--what would’ve been cruel is sticking around even though it’s plainly and clearly not going to work. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I guess…” Midge shrugged noncommittally. Alright, enough was enough. “Listen, thanks for your--”

“You know,” Dennis interrupted rather callously, “you really seem tense. Where do you hold it? It’s in your shoulders, isn’t it?” Before Midge could object, and make another attempt at a graceful exit, he got up and darted behind him, squeezing between a half wall and the back of his chair. Reaching his hands around the sides--entirely without asking--he put pressure on various parts of Midge’s shoulders and upper back, dowsing for God-knows-what. 

At least from behind, there was no chance of Dennis seeing his flushed face. “I was right. Definitely the shoulders...I could tell just from watching you walk in,” he whispered. In such close proximity, one needed little more than a whisper to make a point. He started working at some of the knots under Midge’s skin, probing with his long, delicate fingers. His symmetrical coordination was impeccable, and the firmness of his touch was deep enough to loosen something, while gentle enough to soothe. It’d be near impossible to get up now...what could he do but indulge in this heavenly new sensation? Who knew insecurity and envy and all the rest scuttled under one’s shirt collar to wreak their havoc? Who knew there was a way he hadn’t been touched before that was so electrically intimate? If only anybody else on the planet was the one doing the massaging...at least he could close his eyes and try to forget about that part. 

“You know,” offered Dennis, instantly ruining his attempt at dissociation, “this might be a bit easier if you took off your coat.” Unconcerned, again, with waiting for any sort of confirmation, let alone reply, he slipped his zealous hands straight under Midge’s lapels. He rolled with Dennis’s motions, nearly unconsciously, and if nothing else was happy to have something bulky to position on top of his lap, for a little slice of modesty in these “challenging” times. Especially the moment those hands got to work again. Oooh--had that really been enough time for him to nearly forget how nice this felt? Even more so, with less material in the way...Midge closed his eyes, focusing in on that sheer tactile pleasure. 

He’d intended to bite his lip and try to keep a straight face, but that wasn’t necessarily easy to implement. How could he relax and be relieved of all those negative feelings while simultaneously holding himself back? He let himself breathe more deeply, approaching a sigh here and there. But eventually, Dennis surprised him, getting his thumbs between two of his vertebrae, lower than he’d expected to be touched. That was enough to get him to put the weight of his Adam’s apple behind it, turning that sigh into something a bit closer to a moan. He heard Dennis laughing behind him, just the way he’d laughed at being called “John.” The audacity!

“You think this is funny?” he snapped, without turning to look. “As if it’s somehow my fault for...gasping, when you surprised me like that? You didn’t even ask me if you could--”

“And yet you never told me no,” came the reply from behind him, like a quick-drawing cowboy, firing the perfect shot. “It sounds to me like you’re enjoying yourself plenty, darling.”

Darling? He wasn’t serious, was he? Whether he was being condescending, affectionate, or both, he was utterly insufferable. How easy it would be to just despise him entirely, with his pretentiousness, pettiness, frustrating perfection. If only he weren’t so smooth. Midge had come here to destroy that shadow in his mind, that Platonic notion of a man that he could never reach. And he’d simply laid down in its lap instead, let it chain him up and do with him as it pleased. 

Wrath newly rekindled, Midge felt emboldened to finally peel himself out of his spot at the table, albeit still clutching his sportcoat to the front of his torso like a man with a thing or two to hide. He was about ready to walk out the door, for real this time--but he felt that gentle hand again, this time reaching for his forearm and squeezing it, almost shyly. “I didn’t mean to…” Dennis began sputtering, seemingly at a loss for words. Imagine that--the invincible John Foxx, failing at something for the first time in his life! 

Now, the pieces were really coming together. That softness, that delicate quality he had...Dennis was showing his vulnerable underbelly, and handing him the knife that could kill him. Walking out now was leaving it sheathed. Midge turned towards him, and casually threw his coat over the back of the chair. Whatever he saw or felt was his business, at this point. He reached his hands up around Dennis’s neck, dragging him down a few inches, into a kiss on the lips. (There wasn’t much getting done otherwise, with such a big difference in height…) Midge kept it soft and sweet, avoiding tongue, careful not to overstay his welcome. 

Pulling away to gauge his progress, he saw a positively glowing expression on Dennis’s face. He was flush with limerence and naive optimism, like a teenager who’s just been kissed for the very first time. His face even felt youthful, despite his age--one of those fair-haired types, with hardly a few patches of hair scattered around his face. And those wide eyes...they were that bright, empty, greyish blue that only blonds ever seemed to have. Midge struggled to remember the last time he’d been with a blond. How pleasingly exotic.

Dennis drew him into a fairly chaste embrace, arms around his upper back, chin beside his shoulder. If he felt anything “untoward” in the process, he knew better than to say anything. “I recognized your voice, you know,” he said softly, more or less into Midge’s neck. “On the phone. And I wanted to see you, to talk to you...so I thought I’d go along with everything, just to get you here.”

Was Dennis really so utterly, shamelessly enamoured? His voice dripped with romanticism. If that was how he really felt, there’d be hardly any effort to seduce him now--just fall into his arms and then split without a word. He might as well have been a deer eating from a hunter’s hand. “How long did it take you guess, then?” Midge incited him. 

Dennis laughed at him again--well, maybe not at him, this time--with perhaps a hint of nervousness. “Maybe not in the very first second...but it wasn’t long at all.” Midge tried looking at him, but now he was the one whose gaze was being avoided. “I hope you don’t get the wrong impression about me. I really don’t usually fall for someone quickly. But I feel that when I do, it means a lot.” 

Now, Dennis was leaning down into another kiss, and pushing further with those lips than he’d dared to before. Midge wondered how far he would really be willing to go, but for his own part, he let his hands wander a bit beyond the realm of an innocent hug--not groping by any means, but teasing the contours of Dennis's body. That sweater cloaked it a bit, but he felt like skin and bones underneath: all ribs on top, and nested below them, just above his trousers' waistband, the arcs of his hip bones, pointing the way downward...

"Active imagination?" Midge teased him, running one hand through that wavy hair, delighting in getting it out of alignment. "Wishing you were doing something like this all week?"

"Not quite," Dennis confessed, "it’s not so wise to dwell on something that looks unlikely..." He trailed off, talking into the crook of Midge's neck. Dennis’s hands were creeping along his back again, and he felt one of those thumbs sneaking underneath his suspenders. In return, he got one of Midge’s hands, straight up and under the hem of his sweater. Nothing underneath it--the warmth of his skin was a pleasant surprise. Devilishly inviting. His other hand moved to loosen his own necktie. 

Perhaps following his lead, Dennis turned his attention to his own wardrobe, pulling that distasteful woolly number over his head, disturbing his already disheveled locks only slightly more. While popping open the buttons on his own almost absent-mindedly, Midge took a moment to admire what he’d been feeling with his eyes instead. Yes, he really was a bit ungainly underneath, with a gaunt-looking collarbone that cast heavy shadows. He had one of those thin bars of chest hair, drawn horizontally from one nipple to the other, wispy and fine. 

Now, Dennis shot him with one of those knowing looks that seared straight through him, scorching his mind with the call, “come-with-me.” He led Midge back a pace or two, holding him by his wrists with that dainty touch of his, in order to push him--gently, playfully--back onto the rather new-looking, cream-coloured sofa on the other side of the room. Midge thought it had an unnervingly pristine look about it, but that made it all the better as a place to have some fun. It wasn’t like he owned it, so he could simply enjoy marring something spotless.

Before Dennis was willing to crawl over himself, he had a few more things weighing him down. For a captive audience, he undid his equally unflattering, loose-fitting trousers--a bit of a relief, as they had some sort of odd, off-centre closure that had looked a bit confusing. 

They were loose-fitting indeed, having somehow concealed a particularly gorgeous cock all this time. It was easy for Midge to feel superior when he saw that crooked eye and blotchy skin, but this was enviable: beautifully built, and perfectly proportioned for a tall man. His fair complexion let the veins shine through his skin, and he'd been gifted with plenty of hair here--darker blond and coarser than the rest, but still radiating that delicate quality. In such a state, he was almost intimidating to behold. 

Even without anything to be ashamed of, Dennis had a certain prudish attitude now, looking away shyly again, and covering his mouth with one hand, in a warped gesture of "speak no evil." He was well and truly flushed in the face by now. Midge also quite enjoyed seeing him look bothered and a bit uglied up from it. He almost wanted to burst out laughing at him, but why rush a good punchline? 

Still blushing, Dennis finally straddled over him on the couch, and leaned forward, putting weight down on his elbows. He went for the kiss again, and this time held just about nothing back. The full assault of his tongue, darting to and fro, was almost as shocking as the pressure of his fingertips had felt to Midge’s back, and definitely as enjoyable. It seemed that he must have been willing to go pretty far, after all. He reached one of his hands down, past Dennis’s taut stomach, to touch that lovely gift of his. Enclosed in his grip, it felt as perfect as it looked--solid, with just a bit of give under his fingers. As much as he liked it, he liked feeling the hairs stand up on those skinny forearms around him even more. Midge wondered how long he’d been hard, himself--it already felt like an eternity. Why play coy? He played at rubbing Dennis against what he had to offer, teasing him as well as exciting himself.

Dennis had little patience for any of that, though, leaning back onto his knees, and betraying his intentions with the way his eyes widened as they traveled downward. Midge couldn’t get eye contact out of him, but at least he could get those pale, blue eyes on something of his. Dennis spent no time toying with him, splitting his fly like he was tearing open the largest present under the Christmas tree. Midge felt a pang of insecurity again--how could someone endowed like him ever be pleased with what he brought to the table? But seeing Dennis grin like a fool, with his cheeks smothering his eyes, dissuaded him of any fears.

He leaned forward again, closing his eyes and burying his face in the side of Midge’s neck. With his right hand, he followed through on the idea Midge had already planted in his mind, embracing their cocks together in mutual bliss. While his hips did part of the work, the way he had with his hands was really remarkable...just like he had on his back, Dennis capably balanced a light touch that enticed and pressure that satisfied. Roll, squeeze, press. A thought flashed in Midge’s mind of his hand playing the keyboards instead, but he dismissed it as quickly as it appeared. Somehow, an idea like that felt as shameful as a filthy thought intruding upon a mundane context. 

Midge focused on Dennis’s breath against the side of his face--the heat of it, and the way the pace seemed to vary. He realized Dennis was catching himself, slow-rolling, trying to keep from getting too excited. Wouldn't it be nice to upset a man of control and discipline? He listened and waited for the perfect moment, and when his pace started cresting in intensity, Midge snaked his hand around Dennis's backside and squeezed at an oblique angle, where the edge of his pelvis came through the shallow padding he had.

Midge felt him inhale with surprise, and waited for a telltale drip on his navel, but...nothing. Instead, he got Dennis's teeth (teeth?!) around the edge of his ear, and next, his tongue, probing at a sensitive spot he hardly knew he had. Intimate, sweet, and yet also transgressive. Not the kind of thing that sounds good on paper, but Midge didn't have the time to analyze it...nor the brainpower. Beaten thoroughly at his own game, he ground his teeth together for a moment, feeling a wave of white heat in the center of his face, and an invisible string tightening around his heart.

Having finally squeezed it out of Midge, Dennis quickened his pacing one last time, and gave himself permission to finish after being such a gentleman to his guest. As Dennis polished himself off, Midge felt a steady, deep sigh of relief wash over his face, and, of course, a cascade of something more tangible down below. 

Before he rolled over to get comfortable, Dennis opened his eyes, and took a good look at Midge's face, just a few inches below him. How uncomfortably intense. He couldn't just look at the smile in Dennis's hopeful eyes, whirling with all of his romantic dreams, while knowing what he was about to do to him. So Midge turned his gaze away.

Laying there on his back, with Dennis's elbow in his chest hair and one of those long, thin legs crossed over his own, he felt clarity, and his conscience, returning. Had this really been all that rewarding? Before, he'd been irrationally insecure, but now he'd have to pity this man and feel guilt over tormenting him...for real. Was he really the kind of person to break someone's heart just for fun? Even "John Foxx's" frigid, mechanized heart?

Midge also knew there was no way he could ever simply ride off into the sunset with him, though, so the deed had to be done. Sooner or later, the right moment came--he glanced over at Dennis after hearing an especially deep breath, and found his eyes closed, and his blond brow tightly furrowed from some labyrinth of a dream. 

Slinking away as quietly as he could, he lucked into locating a restroom to clean himself up, and proceeded to itemize his outfit, piecing everything back together between furtive glances to be sure Dennis was still asleep. On his way out the door, just as he was succeeding in what he'd had to do, he had another one of those intrusive thoughts: poor Dennis, later on, with his pretty blue eyes full of tears.


End file.
